Seethe
by slaughterhouse
Summary: I hate Wendy Testaburger. Style, Stendy.


I hate Wendy Testaburger.

I've never hated someone as much as I hate her. There is no one on this entire earth who has the ability to make me as angry as she does. Nope. Not even fucking _Cartman_.

"_Mm_, Stan..."

The reason that I'm angry at the world.

"_God, _S-Stan..."

You'd think that _he _would be. Nope. Wendy is the reason.

They've been married for three years. Stan Marsh and Wendy Testaburger. Fucking stupid bitch is such a feminist cunt that she didn't even take his last name. I would have in a heart beat.

"Ffffuck!"

Stanley Parker Marsh currently has me on the counter in my own kitchen, fucking my brains out. Why, you ask? Why, when he has a wife, and a baby girl on the way?

Because they got in a fight. A stupid little fight. And you know what?

It's been this way for the last seven years. They fight, Stan wallows in his misery, then comes to my house and does what he wants to me. Because it makes him feel better. And I let him. Because I'm in love with him. And it's the closest I'll ever get to having anything with him.

The very first time it happened, we were only seventeen. Wendy had broken up with him, fucking _again_, and he came to me for comfort. I don't know how it happened, but he started it. Honestly.

It doesn't matter if I've been in love with him since we were eight years old. He started it. He kissed me. He wanted me to take everything away, so I did.

Of course, when I took all the apparent pain away from Stan, it had nowhere else to go, so I guess I must have absorbed it or something. That night, he took everything from me. Any thought in my head that wasn't about him. Any chance I ever had of loving someone other than him.

His jeans are pooled around his ankles and mine are somewhere in the kitchen; don't know, don't care. He's pressing as hard and as far into me as he can, and he's almost completely quiet. Which is amazing to me, because I want to scream. But I won't. Never will.

I hate her. She doesn't deserve him. She could never appreciate him the way that I do. She could never appreciate things like how he picks the vegetables out of fried rice, how his tongue stays at the corner of his mouth the entire time he plays Call Of Duty, how he cracks his knuckles by pressing them against his jaw bone, how he is so pathetically slow at texting... I could go on forever. Small things.

Everything about him is perfect. She doesn't see that. If she did, they'd never fight. Because I know damn well that Stan never wants to fight with her. As much as I hate it, he's as in love with her as I am with him.

"One more week, and I'm going to be a dad, Kyle," Stan murmurs against my neck, his teeth scratching my skin. I don't know why he's talking about this. I wish he'd just shut up and fuck me.

Then I start thinking again, not about how great this feels, but about how fucking much I hate Wendy Testaburger. I hate her. I want to kill her. I've never felt so fucking strongly about something in my life. I think that I may actually hate Wendy more than I love Stan. Just maybe.

But I'm brought back to the current situation when his warm hand wraps tightly around my dick, and my hips automatically roll up into his touch. It's almost too much; him fucking me and me fucking his hand at the same time.

I always wonder if he's pretending that I'm Wendy when he fucks me. I know that he's thinking about her, of course. But I just really fucking pray to whatever is up there that he's not _pretending _that I'm _her_. The thought makes my stomach turn, and not in the good way.

But, his fingernails dig into my hips and his eyebrows furrow as he comes. I'm right after him, and I let out a breathless sound when I feel that familiar heat. God, I'll never get enough of it.

As if nothing just happened, Stan starts to speak again. "I'm not ready, Kyle. Dude, why did I ever think that I was? I don't want a fucking kid. I just want Wendy."

I don't want to hear this. I get up and find my pants, pulling them on angrily. "Shut the fuck up, Stan. Go home."

And he looks at me with this... this fucking look that cuts me down to the core. I don't really want him to leave. I want him to stay. I want him to come to bed with me and run his fingers through my hair and whisper in my ear and rub my arms and tangle his legs with mine.

Ha. Right.

Stan leaves.

And I think about him going home to that cunt, fucking her, and whispering against her ear about how sorry he is for fighting with her, even if he didn't even initiate the fight, or even fight back.

I hate Wendy Testaburger with all of my bones in my body.


End file.
